


Nothing but truth

by jetta_e_rus



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Bujold
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-22
Updated: 2010-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-06 13:44:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetta_e_rus/pseuds/jetta_e_rus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scene takes place after the final chapter of "Mirror Dance".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing but truth

ImpSec Lieutenant Miles Vorkosigan was ambushed in his own Residence, near the lift tube.

"Are your classes done for today?" Miles' mother caught him by surprise. She took his arm and gripped tightly. Alas, her daily Vor dress hadn't given away her presence with the rustling of a long wide skirt. Moreover Miles was in so upset a mood now that he would not have noticed Cetas landing on the roof of Vorkosigan House.

"Kind of," he sighed. It made no sense to deny the obvious. His argument with Mark had been too loud anyway. Unfortunately neither son of Aral Vorkosigan had inherited his custom of whispering when angry. There would be some excuse if the argument's cause had been worthy of shouting, but...

After all, it had been Miles who had asked Mark to test him for gaps in his memory; they were a so unpleasant and shameful thing that he could reveal them only to persons closest to him. This time Mark was checking Miles' knowledge of Barrayaran Law. The examiner had driven him from one question to another, read the Law Code thoroughly, noticed any hesitation or any slip of his tongue like a boring pedant, and Miles had suddenly lost his temper, blaming his brother for petty objections and a lack of knowledge.

"So you are able to find a quarter-hour for me," the Countess said definitively. "Come on. You can take your coffee in my rooms."

There was no chance to excuse himself by being busy. Lieutenant Vorkosigan was on sick leave now, pottering idly about his own House and waiting for the Service medics to bring in a verdict that he was able-bodied after his cryo-revival and might be sent off-planet, to the Dendarii Mercenaries who were loyal and never undermined his authority.

It was a good idea to get coffee, indeed.

"I see Mark exhausted you with his questioning," the Countess said affirmatively as she brought a small coffee maker from the built-in dresser. Even after three decades on Barrayar, she found it more convenient to serve herself than to let the household staff perform minor domestic duties. No one would dare reproach her for her democratic behavior.

"I think he was too excited by the opportunity to defeat me," Miles growled out, using his mug as a shield.

"I have never before seen you fly into a rage when you failed" His mother arranged her skirt and sat comfortably in her favorite chair evidently prepared for a long discussion.

"Everything happens sooner or later; it was just the first time," he joked awkwardly.

"And it was unnecessary this time," Countess Cordelia said steadily. "I doubt if you wanted to seriously disagree with Mark, but it sounded like that."

"We are just adapting each to other," Miles tried to explain, "I'm not acquainted with him from my very childhood like with Ivan..."

Another person would have accepted this explanation, but his mother only continued, "So you aren't able to command Mark unlike Ivan."

This was the Countess' particular style, to turn inside out any careless remark and to get it right anyway.

"You are protecting Mark from me this way?" Miles considered belatedly. He felt butterflies dancing in his stomach. Countess Vorkosigan was never acting like a brood hen protecting her chicks, but her practical idea of justice had a deadly power.

"No," his mother jerked her head and whisked away a single lock slipping out from her hair-pin. "You boys are big enough not to be pulled apart by your Ma. You are the one who needs my help."

This statement wasn't comforting. It was the first preventive shot before the intensity of his mother's care would became equal to her attacking volley fire.

"You underestimate me." Miles' smile was cordial, but he wasn't sure whether its falseness could fool anybody like his mother, with her Betan X-ray vision. "I'm fully aware that I blazed up like a fool. I'll talk with Mark. A similar situation already happened, and he wasn't angry with me after that."

Miles rose his brow. Unfortunately his mother disregarded his dramatics. As always she preferred to speak clearly and loudly, not to make hints in a low voice. It was her way to state frankly what she meant

"I'll take your word for it," Cordelia nodded, "It is only you who gets angry, not Mark."

"Mark saved all of us by a miracle," Miles added, "I'm obliged to him until I die."

"Maybe this is the real reason for your anger, dear, isn't it?" His mother's smiled question turned her phrasing into a joke, "You always told us that spectacular daring rescues are your specialty".

"It's the family specialty, not just mine, coming right from you and Father," Miles said quickly, and referred to some bits of the recent family history. "Mark only recently took on this tradition, surprisingly and showily." He paused and added plainly, "Horror and delight mixed together, that's its effect. I've realized after all why Chief Illyan pulls out his hair now and again."

"Simon earned the rest or he would become totally unbearable," the Countess grinned at some private joke, "Like you, returning to our subject."

"My anger is a side effect of the cryo-revival," Miles admitted reluctantly. He hoped that he didn't look like he wanted sympathy. "Now I'm worried by these holes in my mind. After I resolve this problem, even Ivan will envy my friendly charm, I promise."

"How is the cryo-revival related to your sibling rivalry?" Cordelia asked. A sudden crackle of a dry pastry as she broke off a piece was surely Miles' only reason to flinch.

"I don't have any rivalry," he replied quickly. "Mark is my brother and I'm sincerely glad of this fact, without any childish folly."

"As you wish, dear," Countess' grin was almost feral. "But I can tell whether you have rivalry or not and I can even tell you about its reason. As the proverb says, 'our demerits and merits are two sides of one coin'".

Miles was well aware that any eager objections would only convince his Betan mother she had the mark. He tried to settle easily in the chair, spread his elbows, snorted and said in his most casual voice, "Let's suppose that you have intrigued me. And I want to hear, just out of curiosity, what fount of merits makes me jealous of my own brother."  
The phrase "Your clone... - No, my brother!" echoed in his memory. It was fine that Miles had a younger brother. Fine, but... oh my, how difficult it was. Perhaps Miles had idealized brotherly relations before.

"Here you are. You like to, and you can, achieve impossible things. Your pride and ambitions would be enough for two men, and a little bit of it would remain for Gregor yet," she added serenely, "You never ask someone for a gift if you can earn it... such as people's respect, the Emperor's trust, our pride for you, your uniform... You always have done your utmost to prove and be proven. Right?"

Miles nodded, uncomprehending.

"But Mark appeared here poor as a church mouse," Cordelia continued and put her teacup on the saucer, "frightened, with his self-respect torn to pieces, and clothed in your second-hand jacket. All that you have earned by years he got automatically, just by being your brother. This is vexing, Miles, isn't it?"

Miles opened his mouth indignantly... No, it wasn't a true description. Miles opened his month struggling for breath, as if he'd just missed a real uppercut in the solar plexus. It was worse that he tended to accept at least half of her speech.

"Do you think that I envy Mark?" he asked with resentment. "A nice opinion of me you have, Mother."

"This is not completely bad," his mother consoled him. "It is a common thing, what happened to you. Many people deal with sibling rivalry and they are able to manage it. But they are mostly faced with this problem at the age of five years or less, while you ran into it only now. It's as hard for you to overcome a childish psychological crisis as to pick up..." Cordelia the Betan frowned, searching in her memory for some convenient childhood disease which she knew only in theory, "... chicken-pox as an adult. And I would prefer that you overcome it in full recognition."

Miles was on the verge of arguing, but then he thought better of the idea. Sibling rivalry, indeed? Hm-m. Sure, Mark sometimes needed to remember that he was a younger brother. Instead he could be a clever, caustic and always disputing git... a sort of man whom Miles uses to see daily in his mirror, shaving. He wondered how unbearable he was to Mark. While Miles got only a new relative, Mark got all Barrayar to boot.

"I think you exaggerate it, Mother." Miles restored with difficulty his order of defense, his lines having been broken by the opponent's attack, and promised himself to properly consider her words and even to change his behavior, perhaps. "Mark and I just need time to adapt to each other."

"Maybe," Cordelia accepted not being about to overpower her disputing opponent after all. "But hurry, then. Mark isn't going to settle down on Barrayar for a long time and want to live with us..."

"Is everything decided on this Sergyar thing?" Miles was just as glad to change the subject from himself to hear the latest news. "Is it your problem now, Mother?"

"Almost," Cordelia smiled. "Aral and Gregor talked me into it, separately. Your father was convinced, telling me what a pitiful life would await a retired politician and strategist there. Though I suspect that he just never has been able to really loaf about, and so he doesn't know how to do it. And Gregor conceived the idea to tempt me with a high State post. Just think, a Vicereine!" There wasn't any discontent in her voice.

This morning Miles had willy-nilly remembered every tiny detail of the Barrayaran science of law, so now he just gave a whistle. "A woman in a post that requires an Imperial oath, really? It seems Gregor has decided to establish a precedent, being aware that nobody would risk objecting to you."

"It looks so." Cordelia raised her forefinger and grinned, "What is the reason for it? Over three decades I lead a well-behaved life of a Barrayaran lady, I don't interfere in its political affairs, even my own children argue against me..."

"You don't say!" Miles grinned frankly and settled more comfortably in the chair, preparing himself for her long and enthusiastic story of the third planet's future assimilation. It was really interesting but one thought in the back of Miles' mind kept from turning all his attention to the new subject.

He never doubted that his Mother loved him. But Cordelia was strange even by Betan standards; straightforward and strong, she always expected the same strength from her equals. Miles wouldn't be surprised to receive a small, fine-packed box labeled "The Great Test" as her birthday gift. This treatment meant such a respect, cherishing Miles' self-respect more than any traditional mothering. In exchange for it he could endure reproof, especially as his mother was as correct now as she usually was.

Nevertheless he secretly wanted somebody who would fuss over his hurt self-esteem and kiss him to make it better.

**Author's Note:**

> Tralslated from Russian. Beta reading by quietann.


End file.
